Spite
by BushRat8
Summary: When they unexpectedly show up at the same port at the same time, a drunken Jack Sparrow discovers Barbossa's hideaway at Grantham House. Insults and nastiness ensue.


A/N: I'm not sure what Jack Sparrow is sailing — Barbossa has long since made off with the Black Pearl and her crew — but it's no doubt a very small rattletrap. He never could properly take care of a ship.

Sparrow assumes the inn has a landlady because at the time, virtually all such establishments were run by women.

Just a bit of fun at Jack Sparrow's expense, as it's always Barbossa who gets the raw deal in any exchange between the two of them. Not this time.

* * *

-oOo-

 **SPITE**

-oOo-

* * *

"Oy!" comes a shout from the pedestal desk the innkeeper uses for reception of her guests, along with a repeated clanging of the bell. "Oy, anyone home? I want a room!"

It's past midnight and the innkeeper's exhausted, both from her work and — albeit more pleasantly — from the energetic coupling she's just enjoyed with the man curled up beside her, and she opens one eye at the noise. "No-o-o," she mumbles, trying to will herself to slide out from under the covers to answer the summons. "Can't I ever get just one good night's sleep?"

But her lover won't let her leave the bed, as he's recognized the shrill voice howling for service. _Shite, it can't be!_ "Stay here, Dove," he whispers. "I know who that is, an' I'll not subject ye t' th' bastard."

Whatever Jack Sparrow expected by inflicting himself on respectable Grantham House because none of the town's bawdy houses would give him a room, the last thing he anticipated was a grumbly, sleepy-eyed Barbossa coming out, barefoot and clad only in blouse and half-buttoned breeches, to demand, "What th' bloody hell do you want, Sparrow?"

"Well, well, Hector," Sparrow laughs once he recovers from the shock. "What're you doing here? Hiding away 'cause the girls won't take your coin, then?"

Barbossa wants to tell him that he's never been turned away by a working girl a night in his life, but it's not the most prudent thing to say where the innkeeper might overhear him. "Lookin' for a little more peace an' quiet than what that lot in town'll give me," he replies testily, "an' seein' how it be th' middle of th' night, I'll thank ye t' keep yer voice down."

"Tosh," snorts Sparrow. "Now where the devil's the landlady?"

There are soft footsteps on the stairs, and the innkeeper comes padding into the room, nightcap askew, tugging her shawl around her, to stop at Barbossa's side with her cheek pressed to his bicep. "I'm here," she says; and, "Please be quiet; you'll wake up my other guests."

Sparrow brays with laughter. "'Oooh, 'guests,' is it? My, how hoity-toity. Fuck's sake, Hector, what're you doing in a place… like… this…?" His eyes narrow, taking in the innkeeper's posture and proximity to Barbossa, then they widen with realization; the laughter stops and he addresses his next words to her. "Oh, _please_ don't tell me you're spreading your legs for the likes of him!"

Barbossa's on him before the innkeeper can open her mouth to reply, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. "There be two dozen fancy sportin' houses ye may frequent in this port an' fifty more saucepots under th' docks if ye wanna be cheap," he snarls, shaking Sparrow so hard that that his gold teeth rattle around in his mouth, "so I'll be thankin' ye t' take yer arse out th' door afore I kill it. But first, I think ye be owin' th' lady an apology for yer insults an' bad language."

Like the innkeeper hasn't heard far worse from Barbossa himself, and she puts a light hand on his shoulder to let him know no apology is needed.

But he'll not have it; not when it's Jack-Goddamned-Sparrow who's the source of the irritation. " 'Pologize, Jack!" he barks as he presses a thumb into the younger man's throat. "Now!" A squeal comes out of Sparrow that doesn't sound in the least like 'I'm sorry,' and Barbossa shakes him a second time.

If Jack ever wants to breathe again, he'll do as he's told, and, "Sorry!" he squeaks.

Better, but Barbossa still doesn't let him go. "Now listen here, Sparrow: I dunno why ye came up th' hill or how ye found this place, but I'll tell ye: ye're gonna walk out that door an' forget ye were ever here. Go sleep in th' road, go sleep on th' beach, go find yerself a mud pool an' sleep wi' th' pigs, but get yerself gone!"

Sparrow stumbles and chokes as Barbossa pushes him away, but doesn't leave. "Think your crew'd like to find out about your trollop there?" he rails. "Think they'd like to find out a bit more about her than that?"

He never sees coming the red-knuckled fist that lays him out flat on the floor.

When Sparrow comes to, it's to find himself alone in the attic and tied to a chair, bound with the type of impossible knots that Barbossa learned in his early years as a rigger. Jack knows them, too, enough to realize that, unless Barbossa wants to untie him, he'll never be able to slip them without the aid of a knife. "Let me the fuck out of here!" he hollers. "Hector, you bloody shite-for-brains…!"

It's not Barbossa who appears, but the innkeeper, standing at the doorway with her arms crossed. "He told me about you," she says, her soft voice belying her anger. "He didn't want me to come up here, but I said I had to see you for myself."

"He tell you about how he mutinied against me?" Sparrow spits at her.

The innkeeper shrugs. "Yes. And seeing what you're like, if I were him, I'd have mutinied against you, too." She studies her fingernails. "Now if you'd kindly be quiet, I have three lodgers who would like to sleep…"

"Barbossa, you fuck…!"

Barbossa comes bounding up the ladder, and stuffs a greasy rag into Sparrow's mouth to shut him up. "Back t' bed with ye, Dove," he says to the innkeeper, so quietly that Jack can't hear him. "Go on…" He ignores the sick groaning sound Jack makes when he kisses the innkeeper's forehead. "Go on, darlin'."

He lets Sparrow glare at him for some time more before extracting the rag from his mouth. "Ye've a right nerve," he says, low, "t' come round here an' pester a respectable landlady. This ain't a brothel an' she ain't a bawd, an' no matter if ye don't like her bein' wi' me. Say one more word, and I'll slit yer craw; threaten her, and I'll cleave ye in two from skull t' sack."

Things are starting to add up for Jack, in spite of his alcoholic haze, and his mouth drops open. "Jesus, mate, you're in love with her!"

"Nay," Barbossa lies smoothly. "But I know when I got a good thing, and I won't have ye fuckin' it up."

" 'Good thing': ha! What kind of good thing would take up with the likes of you?"

"Seems t' me," Barbossa counters, "that what ye're really wonderin' is why 'tis without payment, an' why she don't want _you_."

An infuriated Sparrow tries to throw himself at Barbossa, though he's still tied to the chair, but succeeds only in knocking himself and the chair over with a noisy clatter. "Quiet!" comes an irritated female voice from below the attic, to be followed by an echo of, "I'm so sorry, I'm having trouble with a drunk. It will be taken care of shortly, so please go back to sleep."

 _It will, indeed,_ Barbossa thinks as he shoves the rag back into Sparrow's mouth before dragging him across the floor and lowering him down the ladder. "Now, I gave you a chance t' leave on yer own," he says, "but seein' as how ye didn't take it, I see now I'll have t' escort ye from th' premises." He hauls Sparrow, chair and all, through three rooms before he comes to a small, spare chamber, at which point he unties him. "Hunh, ye'll be thankin' me for leavin' the rag in yer mouth," he adds shortly just before he heaves Sparrow out the window; the same window out of which he knows the innkeeper and Cora dump their chamber pots and dirty washwater. Then Barbossa unbuttons his breeches, takes himself out, and directs a long stream out the window in the dazed Sparrow's direction, drenching his dreadlocked hair and the back of his coat. "An' don't come back, or ye'll get more of th' same!"

Sparrow tries to stand up, but slips in the muck and rolls arse-over-teakettle down the hill, until his tumble is finally stopped by a squat palm tree. "Ooof!" he groans, pulling the rag from his mouth and wiping his face with it. "Barbossa, you filthy bastard!"

He thinks for a minute to stomp back to the inn and renew the fight, but he's taken several knocks on the head, he's seeing triple, and holy Christ but he stinks so badly that even he can't stand it. Accordingly, he stumbles toward the docks where he falls in the garbage-strewn water and goes to sleep, barely waking when the incoming ripples threaten to drown him.

While at the top of the hill, tucked back into his warm bed, Barbossa grins to himself and pulls the innkeeper close. "Next time he shows up, Dove, if indeed there should be one," he says, tickling his fingertips up and down her neck, "you pay attention t' me an' stay put, 'else I might have t' put yer disobedient backside o'er me knee for a bit of a whack. Understand?"

She laughs wickedly, tugs at his beard, and — just as she's putting her face up to be kissed — sighs, "Ooooh. Understood."

-oOo- FIN -oOo-


End file.
